


The Hales

by coplins



Series: Packrunners [53]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pack Politics, Reconciliation, shifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: Dean's determined to make peace with the Hales. He wants to rekindle the old pack friendship and bring closure between Dick and Peter. So he waits as long as he thinks it'll take for Peter's cold to go away, so the Patriarch no longer is noseblind, then he sets out to fix things.
Series: Packrunners [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/896610
Comments: 22
Kudos: 86





	1. Hazel Munroe

**Author's Note:**

> *About tags and rating - the rating as I foresee it, is probably teen or gen, but I bumped it so I don't have to remember to change that if I end up writing something that would classify as mature. I don't really know how to tag this yet. Any tags you think should be added, tell me. The chapter count might go up, but hopefully not. ^^'
> 
> I had to include a glimpse of my Teen Wolf OTP, Sterek. ^^ Let me share some headcanons for them in this 'verse.  
>   
> Stiles comes from a family of unaffiliated Primals. Stiles dad is a cop, just like in canon. His mom is dead, like in canon. His dad moved to NY after her death. when Stiles is in the process of presenting as an Omega he runs into Derek Hale. While they like each others' scents, it's not love at first whiff. (Derek being a criminal and all, while Stiles is a good guy with a penchant for getting into trouble for being curious and hyperactive.) For one reason or another, they keep running into each other. Once Stiles presents the scent attraction between the two is very strong, yet it takes time before they end up mated since their different worlds keep them at odds, though they're pushed into situations where they're forced to cooperate, and fall in love (personality-wise) against their better judgement.  
> 
> 
> Derek's been unquestioningly loyal to Peter through and through, even during his madness. But when Peter realises Derek's pining for a cop's son he gives Derek the option to either leave the pack to be with Stiles, or to make Stiles part of the pack, no matter what trouble the second option might bring. He urges Derek not to make his mistake and put the pack above his heart. But in the end, Stiles opts to join the pack.
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to my betas, Lisa and Melina. I don't know what I'd do without you. <3<3<3

* * *

Dean rubs his hand over his neck, coating it with secretion, then drags his fingers along the wall of the house. "~ _Come out, come out, wherever you are_ ~" Dean singsongs. Then adds, "Hey, Hale! I know you're there. Come out! I'm here on official pack business so tryna catch me in an ambush might have nasty consequences."

These streets are eerily empty. He knows why. He's closing in on the Hale home. The people living here would have been vetted to the toenails and they know to stay out of trouble. A stranger calling out the Hales and marking their home turf so openly is a reason to go into hiding until the trouble has blown over.

A whooshing sound from above makes him look up in time to see a man sliding down a drainpipe a few yards in front of him. He stops and waits for the man to reach the street. The man―an Alpha―is well built, with black hair, dark stubble and blue eyes. He smells prosperous and closely related to Peter. Since Arvid only had one kit, it means that he's of Laurent's bloodline―an OG Hale.

The man comes to stand a few feet away, squaring up and eyeing Dean suspiciously before he flares blue, like Peter. "I'm Derek Hale of the New York Hale core. You're intruding on our territory. What do you want?"

Dean steps in close, flaring and squaring off with Derek. "I'm Dean Winchester, Main to the Long Island Williams core. I've come to negotiate with your Main about our continued alliance."

Derek holds his position for several seconds before taking a step back, lowering his gaze for a fraction of a second in symbolic respect. With the next breath, he's watching Dean guardedly again.

Dean smiles. "I'm here to try to repair the damage Malicia caused to the relationship between our packs. I have friendly intentions." He tilts his neck and gives it a pat. "Don't be shy." Derek grunts and gives him a surly look, but comes close again to scent him, then offers his own neck. He's tense and anxious under the prosperous scent. After Dean scents him, Dean takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dries his throat with it. "Here. You can take this introduction to your Main." He hands Derek the handkerchief.

Derek takes the offered cloth and visibly deliberates for several seconds before he nods. "Okay. Wait here," he says and turns to look at the roof he'd come from. " _Stiles! Get your ass down here! Entertain our guest!_ " He yells. Another man swings himself over the edge of the roof and begins to clumsily climb downward. He's fat, with skinny legs and arms. Or so Dean thinks, until the Omega has climbed far down enough that his scent is no longer hidden by the upwind. He isn't fat, he's just got two kitlings bundled up inside his oversized jacket. Before Stiles reaches the ground, Derek turns to Dean with a scowl. "If you hurt any of them, I don't care who you are, you're dead," he threatens.

Dean isn't even looking at Derek anymore. He's grinning, fully focused on the approaching Omega―Derek's mate―and the two kitlings. "I'd die before a kitling is harmed on my watch," he answers and walks past the surly Alpha to chirp a friendly greeting at Stiles.

Stiles isn't skinny, he's lean, and smells just as prosperous and content as every other Hale Dean's met, albeit tired. His body-language is nervous, but he doesn't smell anxious at all. The perfect bait. If Stiles had come down alone, Dean would have been suspicious. But bringing the kitlings is a gesture of good faith. He has no doubt there are more Hales up on the roof, armed with projectile weapons and ready to protect the little ones should Dean show any signs of hostility towards them. But Dean came here alone, opting to trust the universal pack laws of parley, also a gesture of good faith.

Dean rubs his neck and holds out his hand to allow Stiles to scent without coming too close. Once Stiles has given Dean’s hand a sniff, Dean asks, "Can I see them? I promise on my pack I won't hurt them."

"Um, uh, yeah, okay, sure." Stiles pulls down his zipper to reveal an ingenious harness keeping the two sleeping kitlings safely strapped to him. 

Dean tweets in delight. The kitlings can’t be more than two or three months old, but smaller than the norm. "They're so tiny! Are they twins?"

Like most new parents, asking about his kits gets Stiles talking right away. "Yeah. I hated them the two last months of pregnancy. I couldn't move and I was in constant pain. Don't get me started on giving birth. I was out cold for three days afterwards. Sourwolf spent those days hyperventilating and growling, I've been told. But now I'm glad I had two at once," he says and chuckles awkwardly. "Then I never have to go through it again. Though, it was worth it. And it's been fun to see the Alphas in the pack go nuts."

"Yeah? I went grocery shopping with some of my mates a couple of months ago, then suddenly they all went missing. Found them in the kitling aisle all cooing over a three-week-old kitling. Had to stand there waiting for them for ages. And once we got home every single one of them turned into complete horndogs. 'S funny because then I was like, 'Yeah, it's cute, can we go now?' And now I'm suddenly as bad as they are."

"It was the same for me. I've been mated to my Sourwolf for years and then suddenly..." Stiles snaps his fingers. "Guess that's how you know you're ready."

One of the kitlings gurgles and blinks awake, revealing the same light brown eye colour as Stiles. Dean's leaning in, purring a declaration of love in his throat and a Main's all-is-well from his breastbone, smiling widely. The kitling blinks confusedly before he smiles back. Dean chirps, utterly smitten. Without thinking, he pelts. The tiny boy's eyes go wide and a little hand reaches for Dean who comes closer so the kitling can touch. He then withdraws his fur only to let it grow back. The boy makes a high pitched noise of wonder and giggles, so Dean does it again. This time, the boy fluffs up like a jet black dandelion puff-ball. Dean coos his praise and unpelts, cooing more praise when the boy copies him again.

The kitling squeals in delight and waves his arms in haphazard excitement, accidentally smacking his brother in the face. The other kitling blinks awake, looking around confusedly, lips quivering as if he’s about to cry. His gaze lands on his brother just as the first boy puffs up again like a black little fluff-ball with another gurgled squee. The kitling that got his face smacked forgets he was about to cry, and instead blinks in wonder, then giggles. Boy number one unpelts, then puffs up again. Both boys squeal in delight and wiggle excitedly. 

Then, the most wonderfully amazing thing happens, melting Dean’s heart into a puddle of goo. Boy number two pelts, puffing up like a kitten-soft pompom. He’s white, with patches of black, and brindled orange - a fabled calico. Just like Arvid had told Marlon about.

Both kitlings giggle and kick their legs excitedly under Stiles jacket. Dean’s grinning like a madman when they start a game of pelt-and-unpelt-to-make-your-brother-laugh, Dean’s encouraging purr is no longer needed or interesting. 

“Holy Heimdallr, they’re adorable!” Dean looks up to see Stiles staring down at his kits, gaping slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Dean sniggers. “Chill. This is a good thing. The more they shift, the faster and more painlessly they’ll be able to do it. And this way, they’ll never have to freeze. Gives some extra protection against claws and slashing knives too. It’s awesome.”

Stiles looks up at Dean and blinks a few times. “Right. Right. Okay. Yes. Right. Um.” His gaze is drawn down to his kitlings who are squealing with delight, giggling and gurgling purrs, kicking and flapping arms, overjoyed to watch each other go fluffy. “Right… Oookay...”

Dean withholds a smirk. Those two are too young to be told to stop, and even if adults hide their own abilities to try to discourage them from pelting, these two kitlings aren’t likely to care. They’re going to be the first two out and proud furries of their generation, encouraging each other. Dean’s sure of it. “Does nursing hurt?” He changes the subject so the twins can continue their game in peace. “I know some females complain about their titties aching, but I’ve never met another male O with kits.”

Stiles looks up again, shaking himself out of the shock. “Um. Yes? Not nursing them, but when I’m full of milk my chest aches like a bitch.”

Dean knows breasts grow when you’re lactating. Male breasts too. Not too much, if Stiles is anything to judge by. He’s still not looking forward to that part.

The fast approach of running footsteps draws their gazes. It’s Derek. Dean hadn’t even noticed him leaving. Derek slows down when he gets close, directing a “ _Mrrt?_ ” at Stiles.

“ _Tchp, tchp,_ ” Stiles answers, assuring Derek everything’s fine. Derek frowns suspiciously at Dean, walking up to them to see what has his sons so excited. He looks down at the kitlings over Stiles’ shoulder, eyebrows raising in surprise. He smiles in wonder. It changes his whole appearance like the sun shining through thunder clouds. Then his face shutters and he scowls accusingly at Dean.

Dean holds up his hands disarmingly and smiles at him, taking a step back.

“She’ll be here shortly," Derek says before looking back at his kits, face softening.

"How do we make them stop?" Stiles whispers harshly.

"We don't," Derek answers.

“Fuck sake,” Stiles mutters with an eye roll.

Dean watches in bemusement as Derek gives Stiles a bitchface to rival Sammy’s, Stiles widens his eyes in an unspoken… something, Derek scowls and shrugs, Stiles gives him a flat look, Derek rolls his eyes and responds with the same widening of his eyes, Stiles deflates and Derek leans in to give him a quick, affectionate temple rub, then smiles down at his fluffy sons. The silent exchange was a full conversation, but Dean couldn’t decipher half of it, especially since their scents didn’t reflect the appearance of annoyance the two were showing. Derek jerks his head up towards the roof. Stiles looks at Dean. “Nice to meet you and all that, but, um, that’s my cue. See ya around.” He closes his jacket―golden and blue light coming from his collar as the kitlings flare so they can continue their game in the darkness―and goes back to the drainpipe with one last wave. His climb upward is anything but graceful.

“You’re sure the kitlings are safe in that harness?” Dean asks Derek, his gaze tracking Stiles’ ascent.

Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes,” he answers flatly.

“And you’re not worried Stiles is gonna fall?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it be more practical to have them strapped to his back?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Derek’s only answer is another flat look and silence. 

“Okay then. Not the chatty type. Gotcha.” Dean makes finger guns at Derek and winks.

Derek remains stony-faced and quietly unimpressed. Dean puts his hands in his pockets and resorts to just looking at him. A couple of minutes tick by, and the faint anxiety in Derek's scent steadily increases.

Dean decides to alleviate the tension with mindless chitchat. "I was gonna ask your mate why he calls you Sourwolf, but it's pretty self-explanatory, huh?" Annoyance mixes in with Derek's anxiety. "Still, you done good. I mean, twins? That's fucking legendary. The way I heard it, that only happens in big, thriving packs. So kudos to ya. Makes me happy."

Derek frowns. "Why would _you_ be happy about it?" he says accusingly.

"Gee. I dunno. We've only been sanctioning or downright sponsoring your pack for the greater part of a century. It's a fucking mystery why we'd want you to thrive," Dean retorts with good-natured sarcasm.

Derek's frown turns troubled, like it actually might be a mystery or he doesn't know their operations are sanctioned. Surely, he must know that? Even after Peter took over, the Hales kept up their end of their deal. Derek draws breath to speak, but stops short at the whistling of a non-native bird. "She's here," he says instead and backs up against the wall, away from Dean.

The next second men and women pour down the drainpipes both in front of and behind Dean, pushing off from the wall five to eight feet above the ground to land smoothly then withdrawing to form a loose circle around Dean at a respectable distance. There are maybe twenty of them, Derek included, all of different ages, from late Juvies and up.

Once the ring around Dean has formed, a woman swings herself over the rooftop to slide down.

She lets go, pushing off from the wall several feet higher than the rest of them had. Dean watches in awe at how she controls her fall and lands on her feet, folding like a spring to absorb the impact then unfolding straight into standing without diving into a roll. If Dean tried to do that from the same height, he'd most likely break bones or, at the very least, lose his breath and hurt something. He knows from Marlon's story that a landing like that requires shifting. He wants to gush and ask the Hale Main to teach him how to do that. (Maybe Marlon can? He'd said something about Laurent teaching him how to land, but that detail got overshadowed by everything else in the story.) But since he's here on official business, he instead purrs approvingly.

The Main's scent tints with annoyance. Dean reminds himself that he might be excited about making new friends, but to them, he's an enemy though they've had a truce for decades. When you're trying to intimidate a foe, you don't want them to react positively to your power play.

Dean waits for her to approach. Hardly surprising, she smells as prosperous as the rest of the Hales. No pains or anomalies. Everything about her looks nondescript and average―average height, average weight, neither beautiful nor ugly, common eye and hair colour―except her posture and charisma. She has the same it-factor as Peter, that allows you to know they're leaders even if nothing in their looks or clothing gives away their status. She's Marlon's age, maybe even older. That's good. Hopefully, it’ll make this easier. Amused, Dean notes that she and he are wearing almost the exact same clothes.

She comes close to square up against him, flaring sunflower-yellow and locking gazes. They stand like that, straight-backed and serious, until he catches a faint hint of anxiety in her scent. Then she finally takes a step back. "I'm Hazel Munroe, Main to the New York Hale core."

"I'm Dean Winchester, Main to the Long Island Williams core, the dominant pack of the east coast territories." One would think the reminder wouldn’t be necessary, but, after the disdainful greeting he received when he sought out the Scorpios to give their Patriarch a chance to explain his behaviour on the Day of the Pyre, he isn’t taking any chances. Pack politics are complex. There are unwritten rules to abide by, and when those are broken it can have devastating consequences. It did for the Scorpios, when Dean declared he was there on official pack business and they scoffed and called him a Hale lackey who should know not to mess with his betters. The tale of what happened next has likely already reached the Hale pack. It might explain the hints of anxiousness in the air.

Hazel tilts her neck to invite a scenting. Dean scents her, then offers up his own neck, stepping back once she’s scented him too.

Hazel watches him guardedly. “So. I was informed you want to renegotiate our arrangements,” she states. “We’ve upheld all our responsibilities to the best of our abilities. I don’t see why a change is necessary.”

Dean shakes his head. “You think I’m here to limit your sovereignty in your territory, don’t you?”

“I don’t see any other reason why you’d be here,” Hazel answers dryly.

“Yeah, no. That’s not why I’m here. Have you been the Hale Main for long?”

“A couple of years.”

“And before that? You always belonged to the Hales? Are you from New York originally?”

“No. I come from Massachusetts. The Boston Munroes.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m from the Kansas Triads, Winchesters originally. You ever heard of us?” It’s the first time he’s referred to his birth-pack like that. He’s considering her age and how Marlon referred to the Winchester-Campbell-Singers when he told his story.

Hazel nods. “I thought you were wiped out during the war.”

“Nah. Our last survivors banded together, but currently, there are only Winchesters left. Still, I ain’t gonna lie, between the Union and the Aristocrats, they almost had us.” Dean’s looking for it, so he catches the twitch of surprise from Hazel’s eyes. It’s good. She was alive during the war and old enough to remember it. “But that’s beside the point. The alliance of the Kansas packs has a long history that began with a friendship between three people whose packs happened to live fairly close to each other. I grew up being told how important friendships with other packs are, right? So when I came to New York and got myself a new pack, the old alliances and friendships of my new pack are as important to me as those I grew up with.”

“Uh-huh?” Hazel says with a slight narrowing of her eyes.

“Are you familiar with Laurent Hale and Arvid Mattsson?”

“Of course. I never met them, but I know who they are.”

“Malicia Hale?”

Hazel sneers in disgust. “I’ve heard of her. What’s your point?”

“My point is, Malicia Hale single-handedly managed to obliterate a friendship that helped preserve the existence of Packrunning. And for a very sensitive reason, I really need to talk with Peter before you and I can make any decisions, or old wounds risk getting torn open again. Here, I wanna show you something.” Dean sticks his hand inside his jacket and pulls out an envelope that―to him―contains a treasure. Old photos Marlon had hidden away and lovingly preserved. Once he showed them to Dean, Dean spent a whole day painstakingly scanning each and every one of them into a computer, making multiple backups. He’d brought only a few originals with him as evidence for his claims. He carefully takes the photos out when Hazel leans close to see. He holds up the first one. “This one is of Marlon Williams, our current Patriarch, and Aiden Williams our prior Patriarch, here, and here, and there’s Laurent and Malicia. These people are from other city packs, the Jayhawks, Swifts, Cavellis, Boltons. This was their clique. The photo was taken at the Sanctuary before they’d even all presented.” Dean shuffles to the next photo. “Here’s Marlon and Laurent at boot camp when they were conscripted.” Another shuffle. “Here are Aiden, Marlon, Laurent, and this is Arvid Mattsson.” Next photo. “Here are Marlon, Laurent, and Arvid. And the kitling Marlon’s holding? That’s Peter Hale. That photo was taken on the Williams estate. They were frequent visitors. Here’s the next photo, taken in our current home. The kit sitting on Marlon’s lap is Peter. Marlon's reading Chuck's latest book to him. Chuck was our Main back then. And the kitling Arvid’s nursing? Michael Williams. Laurent, Arvid, and Marlon were best friends and lovers until they were parted by death. Malicia used to be part of their circle when they were young, but she and Aiden didn’t get along. Marlon can’t answer what went wrong with her. But. Look. I saw your eye twitch when I mentioned the Aristocrats. You were alive back during the war. You know what I’m talking about.”

Hazel gives a small nod. “We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“Yeah, no, I know. A promise was given, but with a loophole. That if the right questions were asked, you could answer. That loophole was designed for inquisitive bastards like me, okay? I asked the right questions. I know the Aristocrats attempted a coup, trying to take over the government and obliterate both Packrunners and Progressives alike. The friendship between the Hales and the Williamses cost Conservatives the war. When most of the Williams pack were at the front in Canada, the Aristocrats staged an attack on those left behind after luring them to Hale territory, killing everyone - from kitlings to the Main. They meant to pin the blame on the Hales, start a major pack war and get rid of, at least, two powerful packs that threatened their agenda. It didn’t work because the Aristocrats didn’t realise there was a friendship between those two packs. The Hales had promised to protect the Williamses who remained in New York, and the Williamses trusted that promise more than all the fake evidence the Aristocrats planted. Laurent himself made a mad dash to the front to find Marlon and tell him what had happened. That’s when we returned home and alerted the rest of the packs to the danger. The Hales acted as messengers, going cross country and into Canada to warn any and all Packrunners they could find.”

“His name was Johnathan Hale. The messenger that came to us, to warn us,” Hazel tells Dean. 

Dean smiles, eyes serious. “Ma’am, you have no idea how much I want to sit down and talk to you for hours, to hear your story about the war. I have this need inside of me, to take back the history that was stolen from us, even if they did it to protect us. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here, because I want to mend the friendship and rebuild the alliance we once had. After the Reckoning, when we finally beat the Aristocrats and claimed the power, Marlon, Laurent, Arvid, Aiden, and Marlon’s mate Chuck, decided to keep their friendship secret from the public, and from their kits, since kits aren’t great at keeping secrets. That was a mistake, if they hadn’t done that, the rift between us would never have happened.”

Hazel purses her lips. “No matter what rumours you might have heard, Peter is an intelligent and reasonable man. Hard, but reasonable. I’m certain he wouldn’t react as badly to a friendlier relationship between us as you seem to think he would.”

This time, Dean’s smile is sad. “Yeah… but have you heard about his first mate, Richard Roman?”

“You can’t be a Hale and not have heard that story,” Hazel answers.

“Yeah, well, that’s where it turns into a delicate issue. These days, Richard is my Second,” Dean says and gives her a pointed look.

“Oh.”

“Exactly. So yeah, I want to look over our agreements and see how we can make things more beneficial for both of our packs. I want to visit your clubs and find myself welcome, and offer the same welcome to you in our part of town. I want to hear what you’d like from us. I want a shitload of stuff that will solidify our joint power in New York. But before you and I can sit down and discuss any of that, I think I need to talk to Peter, and then, if he’s willing, sit down with him and Richard to let them talk. Hopefully, they can get closure and heal, you get what I’m sayin’?”

Hazel's expression is pinched for a beat, then softens somewhat. "Can I siphon you?"

"Go ahead. I ain't got nothing to hide. I'm here for the reason I say I am." Siphoning gives away those underlying feelings that might be hidden from your nose.

Hazel reaches out to swipe her fingers over his neck and sticks her fingers in her mouth to siphon. She only siphons twice, then, without taking her eyes off him, turns her head to yell, "Corvid!" A young man, still in the process of presenting as an Alpha, frees himself from the ring of Hales and starts walking towards them. Hazel holds up a finger to Dean and says, "One moment, please." She turns and walks to meet the young man halfway. They lean their heads together to talk too silently for Dean to hear, but he can see Corvid scent in his direction. He guesses Corvid is like Sam and Luci; someone with an exceptional sense of smell, who can read a situation better than most.

Hazel nods sharply and Corvid goes back to the ring. Hazel comes back. "Can I see those photos again?"

"Of course." Dean hands them over.

"Jesse! Bucket!" Hazel calls out. One woman slides down the drainpipe and a man approaches from the ring. Both of them are old. When both of them have come to Hazel, she quickly introduces the old woman as Bucket and the man as Jesse. Then she holds up the first photo for them to see. "Does this look legit to you? We were friends with the Williamses?"

Both of them nod.

"Yes. Laurent and Mar were more or less joined at the hip for a while. Mar sideran us, working Laurent's routes with him," the old woman, Bucket, says.

"They fell out of touch after a certain event by the end of the war," Jesse says.

"Yeah, no, they didn't," Dean corrects. He takes the photos from Hazel to show the photo of Arvid nursing Mikey, and Marlon sitting beside them reading to the four-year-old Peter. "Look at this. It's the last time Peter got to come along when Arvid and Laurent came to visit Marlon. We've got more photos of them together at our home. The last one of Arvid was taken two weeks before he died. There was never a falling out. They decided to keep the friendship secret to avoid triggering a political catastrophe after we seized power from the Aristocrats. They thought it would look bad if the ruling politicians of New York were openly chummy with criminals. But why they kept it a secret from the rest of their packs eludes me. I asked Marlon why, and he just says ‘because we were idiots’,” Dean says, making air quotes.

“That does sound more like them,” Bucket says thoughtfully.

Hazel drags a hand over her face. “Very well. Dean. I’m choosing to believe you on all accounts. I may hold reservations about renegotiating our current agreement, but I’m willing to sit down with you and go over the deal as it stands. After all, it’s the customary thing to do when a pack changes leadership. However, you’re right. We can’t do that before Peter and Roman have worked things out. My pack’s happiness is my priority, and I’d like nothing more than to see my Patriarch find peace. I’ll call him and ask him to talk to you. If he chooses not to talk to Richard, that’s unfortunate, but it’s his decision.”

“Yeah, no, of course.”

“However, even if he doesn’t want to see things resolved, I’d still like to sit down with you and go over our agreements to make sure there are no misunderstandings. Preferably, I’d like to set a date for it so I can confer with my pack about what changes we might want and what we will or won’t agree to.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Then that’s settled. Give me a moment.” Hazel snaps her fingers and Jesse and Bucket fall back into the ring of pack members while Hazel takes two steps away from Dean. She pulls a cell phone out of a pocket and makes a call. The recipient answers almost immediately. “Peter, I need you here right now…” Hazel rolls her eyes at the answer. “I _know_ that. But I’m standing here with the Williams Main. A very handsome young man who had the courtesy to go through me, when he really wanted to talk to you. He had some very interesting things to say and if you pass up on speaking with him only to rough up some lowlife pusher― ...That’s what I thought. Now, get your ass over here and leave it to Nieves to finish the job.” She hangs up and turns back to Dean. “He’s on his way. In the meantime...” She takes out a business card and hands it over. “Here’s my phone number. Once you’ve resolved your business with Peter, call me to set up a meeting. Even if your talk with Peter goes awry.”

“Will do. And maybe I’ll call ahead to discuss our wardrobe so we don’t show up wearing the same thing again,” Dean jokes and gives her a wink.

Hazel’s lips twitch, her scent revealing both amusement and annoyance. She rolls her eyes at him, then whistles shrilly and the rest of the Hales quickly disperse, shimmying up drainpipes or disappearing into alleys. Hazel gives Dean a two-fingered salute and takes off, leaving him to wait alone.

Not completely alone. He’s still being watched from the roof. Not that he can see or smell anyone without a downward wind, but he faintly hears Stiles’ kitlings still laughing and squealing in delight somewhere on the roof. 

Dean chuckles to himself.

He doesn’t have to wait very long before the Juvie-soon-to-be-Alpha called Corvid, whom Hazel had asked for a second opinion concerning Dean’s scent, comes sliding back from the roof. A few steps behind him comes Peter, swinging himself onto the drainpipe before Corvid’s even halfway down.

Unlike before, when he was squaring off with the Main of the pack and surrounded by potentially hostile fighters, Dean starts to get nervous…

* * *


	2. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's finally eye to eye with Peter Hale again. But he's nervous, and Peter doesn't seem too happy to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY an update on another wip!!! 
> 
> Okay, you could have gotten this one much sooner, but Google Docs decided to be a little [redacted] and didn't send me the mail telling me my first Beta had gone through the doc, nor did the ring with the number of suggestions show up in the folder. So I simply thought she'd been super busy and hadn't had time to go through it. :P But she had, like, almost two weeks ago. I asked my other beta to make it a priority to read and she did, the same day as I noticed my first beta was done. <3 So a big thank you to both Lisa and Melina, and a stern reprimand to Google docs.

* * *

Dean holds his breath until both Corvid and Peter are on the ground. Peter comes walking towards him with Corvid on his heels, then stops two strides away, serious and guarded. He smells as good as he did the last time Dean saw him. Better even, without any trace of illness in his scent. At first, he thinks Peter is holding Corvid’s hand, but then he notices that Peter’s palm is flat backwards, and Corvid’s tapping his fingers on it.

Dean smiles. “Heya…”

Peter nods a silent greeting.

“Let me guess. Corvid’s giving you the deets on my scent. Freak nose, right? He’s telling you that when I spoke to Hazel, surrounded by Hales, I was cool as a cucumber. But now I smell happy, excited, and nervous as fuck. Am I right?” Dean hedges.

Corvid makes big eyes at that. Peter’s lips quirk upward. “Yes. Among other things.”

“Told ya, I’d be happy to see you when we met again. You can smell me now, right?” Dean withholds the urge to wipe his sweaty palms off on his pants. He’s glad he put the pictures back in the envelope to protect them.

Peter nods. “Did you know?”

“What? Who you were? Did it _seem_ like I did? Fuck no. I was wasted. I was, like, _oooh_ , this nice gentleman is a good friend of the Hales. I wonder how much his pack has to pay to run clubs on their territory?’ Hah, little did I know… Pretty embarrassing, huh?”

Corvid lets out a surprised laugh when Dean calls Peter a nice gentleman, but right away his laugh is cut off and exchanged for a lowered head and lip-licking submission. Peter gives him a dry look before looking back at Dean. “I found it… charming.”

“Charming? Yeah, I’ll go for charming. I’ll take it,” Dean jokes and winks.

“Why are you here?” Peter asks with a demanding jerk of his chin.

“You, uh, want to forgo an official introduction and jump right into it?” Dean counters.

“I believe a proper introduction was promised.”

“Yeah. So let’s get it out of the way,” Dean prompts.

There’s this thing that happens inside of Dean when he’s aware that he’s stepping into his role as the Main, the representative of his pack, instead of being just ‘Dean’. As soon as Peter steps in close for a face-off, Dean straightens up and finds that calm center he had while squaring off with Hazel. He flares and teeths his canines and locks his gaze with Peter. Peter’s so close their noses nearly touch. He’s making a real challenge out of this. Gaze unwavering, Dean can still see motion in the corner of his eyes as Corvid taps his fingers in Peter’s palm. _Tap, tap, tap_ , like a real-time Morse code feed relaying the undercurrents of emotions not readily detected by normal noses. Dean should suggest Sam and Lu to develop a system like it. Luci could easily sit beside Dean in a meeting, keeping his hand on Dean’s thigh to transfer information. Gods, he needs this to go well. It’s too late to prevent the slaughter of Dick’s Europeans and the murder of so many Hales, but he hopes he can help Dick and Peter to get past the trauma. He wants it so bad it nearly hurts. Peter’s body language is hostile, though. He doesn’t smell like it, but he _looks_ like he wants to start a fight. Long, tense seconds tick by, Corvid’s fingers the only movement.

Suddenly, without warning, Peter grabs Dean’s midriff in a crushing grip and goes for his throat.

It happens so fast. Dean’s instincts kick in, his heart jumping into overdrive, fangs elongating and suddenly digging into the soft flesh at the juncture between Peter’s neck and shoulder, claws in Peter’s chest, and an icy death threat rumbling in his throat. Corvid makes a desperate sound of submission, smelling of fear. 

Dean freezes mid-bite.

Peter’s just pressing his nose hard against Dean’s vulnerable throat, holding onto his midriff in a vice grip to prevent Dean from shoving him away.

Slowly, carefully, on high alert, with a rush of adrenaline surging through his system, Dean eases his fangs and claws from Peter’s flesh, blood seeping into his mouth from the wounds he inflicted on Peter’s neck. “ _Holy hell_ ,” he wheezes. “Buddy, we’re following protocol for a reason. Anything happens to me and you’d be wiped out to a man. Warn a guy!” He wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders in a wide-eyed hug, licking soothingly at his bite. “Fuck.” He meets Corvid’s frightened eyes and starts purring an all-is-well for him, while trying to calm his own heart.

Peter lets go with one hand, letting it hang down loosely, wrapping the other around Dean in a one-armed hug to keep him in place, taking one deep breath after another through his nose. Corvid reaches out his hand to rest in Peter’s palm as soon as it’s available to him, giving Dean a nervous look. “Who is he?” Peter asks.

Peter’s voice is muffled. Dean nearly doesn’t hear what he says. “What? Who?” Dean counters in confusion.

Peter pulls away a mere half an inch, just enough to be able to speak properly. “The guy. The Omega you’re bonded to.”

Corvid starts tapping.

“Tap, tap, tap, the little bird is telling you I’m bonded to two male Omegas,” Dean says. “One’s my brother, and you can’t smell him cuz we smell too alike. The other is my Second. You know him.”

“No. I would have remembered meeting someone like this,” Peter states with certainty and presses his nose back to Dean’s throat.

“Yeah… about that…” Dean grabs Peter by his shoulders then resolutely dislodges him, holding him at arm’s length. “I’m not just dropping by to say hello. I want our packs to be friends and allies again, like we used to be back in the day. But I need to talk to you first. I have two things we need to discuss. One of ‘em might be a tough topic for you, and one’s gonna be a motherfucker to talk about. Where should I begin?”

“Ease me into it,” Peter says, lips curving into a nonchalant smirk, but his scent starts bleeding slight anxiety. Fucking finally, Dean isn’t the only one nervous.

“Alright. Remember I said I was chasin’ history that night?”

“Mhm.”

“Marlon, my mate, was best friends with your parents. They stayed friends and lovers until they were separated by your parents’ deaths. They kept it a secret from you and from their packs. They lied to you.”

Peter shakes his head, eyes skeptical. “You have any proof to back that claim?”

“Yeah.” It takes Dean a moment of confusion to realise he dropped the envelope when he thought Peter was attacking him. He stoops down to pick it up. “You want to know how they met and became friends?”

“I want to know what you _think_ you know,” Peter says sharply.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll give you the Cliffsnotes version. You know Arvid, your mom, was a merc, right? Before he became a Hale?”

“Mhm.”

“He was captain of a company paid by the Union to fight us. So they did. Back then, the Williams pack was bigger, and the core still lived on their Long Island estate. They were soldiers, warriors. There’s a dungeon on our estate and that’s where Marlon met Arvid for the first time. They’d brought in three prisoners. Two Unionites and one merc. Marlon was just a kit. He was... let’s call it a _difficult_ kit, so he was drawn to the dungeon and the Packrunning merc inside. Arvid was the first male O he’d ever seen. Arvid promised to sing like a lark if they’d just move him. He told Marlon the harbour was gonna get bombed. But nobody was listening to a prisoner or a kit. Except, Marlon was tired of hiding in the bomb shelter and wanted to see the excitement for himself. So the night of the bombing, he stole the key to the dungeon and went down to make a deal with Arvid. He wanted Arvid to take him to a place with a good view of the bombs since he wasn’t allowed to leave home without an adult. Of course, that adult was supposed to be a Williams, but since nobody had spelled that out, Marlon took advantage of the loophole. Arvid agreed to all his terms.”

Dean pauses briefly before he goes on. “When you took me to the roof, I could see the bridge they walked over. And while they were walking through the slums, Arvid told Marlon about the watchers on the roof. Marlon waved for one of them to come down so he could warn them about the bombings. His own pack hadn’t taken the warning seriously, but your dad, still a Juvie himself, came down and greeted him like he was worthy of being listened to. Laurent took the warning seriously and spread the word. It gave y’all just enough time to evacuate and warn a few other packs of what was coming. Arvid and Marlon watched the bombs fall from the rooftop of a house just down by the harbour, opposite the shipyard that got bombed. Afterwards, they had another run-in with Laurent. Arvid was in Heat. He wanted to swing, do drugs, drink and fuck. Laurent pointed them to The Sanctuary,” Dean says. He takes out a photo. He hands it over. It’s the first one of the group of friends at the Sanctuary. “Arvid returned to his company later on, but Marlon kept going there. This was their clique.” He points out all the people in the picture. 

Peter is quiet, jaws clenching and unclenching. His scent gets spiky with anger when Dean shows him the rest of the pictures. He snatches straight out of Dean’s hand the picture of him sitting in Marlon’s lap while Arvid’s nursing Mike. “This is me,” he says tightly.

“Yeah, and your mom is nursing Mike Williams. It’s the last time you got to come along. They didn’t want you to remember.”

Peter looks up from the photo with a deep frown, his mouth an angry line. “I want to spit in your face and call you a liar. Except, I _do_ remember. Marlon Williams has a very distinct flare. A colour that’s stuck with me all these years. I have fuzzy memories of a man with a vivid purple flare playing with me, of sleeping on his chest and waking up to see that flare. It’s a colour that felt happy and safe for me, and I’d always presumed it was some old pack member that died because he just seemed to disappear, and I was brushed off with some bullshit excuse whenever I asked for him as a kit. We don’t talk about the dead much. We grieve and move on. so I assumed the man had died. The first time I faced off with Marlon as an adult, it pissed me off that his eyes were the same colour as the man from my childhood. It was fucking wrong. But I remember the man’s name. It wasn't fucking Marlon Williams. It was―"

"Ares?" Dean interrupts. "Or Peepers? Cuz those were Arvid's nicknames for him. He dubbed him Peepers the first time they met when Marlon flared at him through the slit in the dungeon door. Then when they were walking through the slums he came up with Ares. Athena was the Williams pack god back then, but Arvid said Marlon was a son of Ares, not Athena. Then that name stuck due to some of Marlon's actions."

Peter's back to staring angrily at the photo. "Mom wasn't burned at the Pyre like the rest of us Hales are. After everyone said their goodbyes, he was sent off to be burned. But instead of the Pyre truck, a fucking hearse came to get him. Dad left with it and returned the next day. It went in the direction of the bridge. Was he burned at the Williams estate?”

“Yeah. If you want to know everything, Marlon has agreed to tell you. We have loads more photos at home. I can get you copies of all of them, and Marlon will sit down and tell you the truth.”

Peter growls. He takes a deep breath to steady himself then meets Dean’s gaze. "I'm not surprised I've been lied to. People lie and have secrets. We're shit that way. It makes me angry, but I'm not a raving lunatic anymore. I get them. You try raising a kit and see if you tell them everything. I sure as shit didn’t give my kits all the ugly details. Coming home wounded and covered in blood, I’d say that daddy had a little accident at work, but don’t you worry, daddy loves you and everything’s alright. The past is fucking gone, and none of this changes anything. You say you want our packs to be allies, friends even. I’m not ruling that out, but that’s us. That’s now. Mom, Dad, they’re dead. I can see the benefit of not having the Williams’ knife-edge at our throats. I don’t trust you for shit, you have to earn that, but I’m not dumb enough to reject a hand that’s reaching out to me. What you did to the Scorpios shows you don’t bother with niceties if you don’t feel like it, and I’m well aware what harming you would cost us. But let’s get one thing clear. Whatever your mate told you is not the whole truth. It fucking can’t be because...,” he snatches the photo of the group at the Sanctuary from Dean and holds it up, tapping Malicia Hale, “you’re not mentioning Mal. In this picture, Marlon has an arm around her and they’re looking as friendly as can be. But Malicia hated your guts. She hated the Williams pack with a passion. What did you do to her?”

_Tap tap tap_ , Corvid broadcasts Dean’s confusion before Dean has a chance to answer. “I dunno. All I know is that Aiden and Mal didn’t get along.”

Peter snorts. “That’s convenient,” he says sarcastically. “Blame the dead, of course.”

“Yeah. Maybe Papa ca―, sorry, I mean Marlon, can tell you more?”

Peter drags a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. The past is the past. But you’re the one coming here wanting to stir it up. I don’t need to drag shit back up again. I told you, I’m open to redefining the relationship between our packs. If Hazel wasn’t, she wouldn’t have told me to come talk with you. You happy?” Peter frowns and doesn’t let Dean answer. “No, you’re not. You’re sad and a bit angry all of a sudden.”

“What? No, I ain’t.”

“I can’t smell it either, sweetheart, but Corvid here knows more about you than you’ll ever know about yourself. So what is it?” Peter says, scent laced with annoyance.

Dean has to pause to figure out what made Corvid think he was suddenly angry and sad. He hadn’t consciously felt those feelings but thinking about it now, it’s clear as a bell. If Peter doesn’t want to face the past, Dick will end up hurt all over again. That thought is enough for him to smell budding anger on himself. “Yeah, okay. You don’t want to stir up the past? Then you ain’t gonna like this next bit. I understand that you hate us Williamses?”

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not nominating any of you for person of the year, but I don’t care enough to hate you anymore.”

“Fair. I’m mated to all five Williams pack-Alphas. My brother’s mated to all but our Patriarch. My Second’s mated to three, and will most likely end up mated to our Patriarch Marlon as well. That’s where we’re heading.”

“And?”

“It’s Dick.”

For a long while, Peter stares uncomprehendingly at him.

“You asked me who he was, that Omega I’m bonded to. It’s Richard Roman. Your first mate. The one Malicia rejected and forbade you from allowing him to siphon. The one whose other mates you slaughtered. The one who bore and lost your kits because you didn’t keep his bond intact. When we spent the night together, _you_ said you wished you could talk to him. He’s willing to do so. But these days he’s a full Williams pack member, firmly mated into the pack you’ve been known to hate. I’m here, sitting on a diplomatic bomb, hoping that after two decades you can avoid throwing a tantrum and calm down enough to sit and talk to him like an adult. The way I see it, you were also a victim of the circumstances or I wouldn’t have come here. You don’t want to stir up the past? Well, fuck you. You can just piss off. But if you _do_ want to talk to him? Maybe get closure? Make a friend? Whatever. Then you drop that nonchalant facade, and you talk to him like an adult. You talk open and honest, and be fucking vulnerable. It’ll be just me, him, you, and one person of your choosing if you need emotional support. I’ll be there because he asked me. But you better be serious, cuz if you hurt him one more time, I swear―!” Dean cuts himself off when his lower lip snags on his elongated fangs. Peter’s face is lit by minty green light from Dean’s intense flare. He’s licking his lips and lowering his head to the side, exposing his neck to Dean in submission.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “I’m sorry. Guess your little bird’s right, huh? It does piss me off if you want to brush away the biggest trauma Dicky’s ever gone through. He loved you, man. You kept hurting him, but I don’t think you did it on purpose. Back before I unlocked his scent, he’d always smile and say he was fine. He fucking wasn’t, and now he can’t hide it anymore. I’m not letting you meet him if you’re gonna act like it’s nothing.”

Peter’s no longer smelling angry, but there’s a mix of emotions Dean would need someone like Corvid to make sense of. Peter looks at his feet. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

“I don’t think you did or I wouldn’t be here. Look, man, we have a chance to cut open old wounds and drain the infection underneath. Would you want that? Or do you want to pretend the past never happened and just live in the ‘now’?” Dean makes air quotes.

Peter looks up, eyes sad and tired. “Of course I want to see him,” he says quietly. “He’s been haunting me since the day he left.”

“Yeah? If it goes well, can I persuade you to hear Marlon out about your parents too?”

“Yes. But why is that so important to you?”

Dean is quiet for a beat, taking his time to think about the answer. “Maybe it’s different for you. You grew up in a big pack with lots of people. You take it for granted... My birth pack was once a big pack. We were three packs sharing a town. The Kansas triads. By the time I was born, there was only one survivor from each pack, banded together. Mom died giving birth to my lil bro, and then there were only two adults left. But how they raised us, what we were and what we became, was shaped by what we had once been. What started as an outpack friendship turned into something strong enough to hold two fucking armies at bay. Because of the past, I was raised to be a warrior as much as a hunter. Because of the past, I was raised to hold outpack friendships as something important, even though there were no other packs around, because when you present as an Omega, your birth pack is no longer your own. We’re like dandelion seeds, meant to fly off to a new meadow. We join a new pack, and their past is suddenly ours. I find myself in a pack with more outpack connections than I ever imagined possible. And this is my pack now. Their lost ones are the people I’m gonna run with when I die. They’re still here. I want to know them, because they shaped the people I love, and they’re still shaping how the future unfolds. Their actions had an impact on us, still do. I don’t know. I just have this feeling of missing them, even though I’ve never met them. Dunno if that makes sense.”

Peter makes a sound that could mean anything. He turns his head and nods towards Corvid. Corvid backs away, then scurries to the nearest drainpipe and shimmies up to the roof. Both Peter and Dean follow his ascent with their eyes and look back at each other only once he’s disappeared from view. Peter holds up the picture of the gang in The Sanctuary again and taps his finger above Malicia’s head. “See this woman? She was one of my primaries, in many ways she was a better mom than my real mom was. She went on to become my Main. I _loved_ her, and I killed her. Richard hated her, and he’ll hate what I’ve become. Are you sure this is a good idea? Isn’t it better to let a sleeping dog lie? It took so many years for either of us to find a semblance of peace. If we go digging up the past...” His eyes convey worry and vulnerability. “I don’t want to make things worse for Richard after what I’ve already put him through.”

“Yeah… But I think it’ll be good for both of y’all.”

Peter looks at the ground, considering. “If that’s what he wants, then I’ll do it. And… I know what it’s like to miss someone I’ve never met,” he admits. “If all goes relatively well, maybe your Patriarch can help clear some things up for me.” He looks at the photo in his hand. “Which one of these people is Bolton?”

Dean barely hides his surprise, but dutifully points out Knuckles.

For awhile, Peter stares in silence at the long-dead man in the photo. His scent is once again a jumble too complicated for Dean to sort out. “There was a pack war…” Peter says, at last, still looking at the photo. “The Boltons attacked the Jayhawks, I think, but we were involved in their defence. Knuckles turned on his own mid-fight to defend Mal and dad. He was killed by his own pack.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No…” Peter says driftingly. He looks up at Dean again, eyes hard and determined. “So when and where do you want to do this thing?”

Dean has so many questions he wants to ask. From the little Marlon told him about Bolton, the guy was an ass who deserved what was coming to him. But if that was true, he wouldn’t have turned on his own pack to save his friends. Any history questions will have to wait, though. “Is tomorrow too soon?” he asks.

They agree on a time and place, and, when they part, both of them smell equally nervous…

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Another headcanon: Stiles was unconscious for 3 days after giving birth so he never saw that his kitlings were born with fur. In fact, this is the first time he sees anyone pelted.


End file.
